


Holotapes

by erunamiryene



Series: Dispatches From the Commonwealth [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erunamiryene/pseuds/erunamiryene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home to all the Fallout 4 ficlets that aren't big enough to be a standalone fic.  Tags updated as need be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Serious Question

“Is your friend in the power armor always so serious?”

Essie and Danse are waiting for the elevator in Vault 81 when the guard, Sarah, breaks the silence. Essie doesn't even need to glance at Danse to know that he's standing there with a far too grave look on his face for a man waiting for an elevator, but the question still surprises her.

_Not when he’s telling me stories about the mischief he got into as an Initiate_ , she thinks. _Not when he’s been trying to teach me melee combat and we’re both tired, so he cheats and tickles me. Not when he’s lying next to me flushed and breathless and sated, washed in flickering lantern light as he laces his fingers with mine. Not when we wake up when the sun is just rising, and he pulls me close and buries his face in my hair and murmurs that he loves me in quiet awe, like he can’t quite believe his good fortune._

Essie smiles and says none of these things. He is her secret, one she keeps very close to her heart. “You know how these military types are,” she says lightly. “They eat, sleep, and breathe seriousness.”

“Such a shame,” Sarah says, chuckling, as the elevator door opens. “See you next time.”


	2. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse needs a haircut, but first things first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "surprise discovery of an overly-sensitive body part"

It’s a beautiful, quiet day in Sanctuary, the third in a week set aside for R&R after Essie and Danse’s last extended trip through the Commonwealth. The sun is shining on the patio, glinting on the pistol Danse is cleaning, when Essie rounds the corner bearing two glasses of water. 

She sets them on the table, stoops to kiss his cheek, then rakes one hand through his shaggy hair. It got long while they were out and about, and he’s complained about it more than once. “You want me to cut this for you? I brought back a decent pair of scissors.”

His hands still and he doesn’t answer right away, struck by a sudden wave of desire nearly strong enough to curl his toes. He swallows hard, wrangling his focus back under control. “I … sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted me to cut this mop.” 

He sets the pistol aside and tilts his head back to look at her. “To be honest, I want you to run your fingers through it again.”

A smile teases at the corner of her mouth as she cups the sides of his head and cards her fingers through the black locks. “Like that?” she murmurs, bending to kiss his temple.

“Mm.” He bites his lower lip, eyes closed in bliss. “Like that.”

She repeats the action, slower this time, leaning over him to kiss him on the mouth. She’d meant it to be quick, but he regains his faculties enough to reach up and hold her there, and the kiss deepens, lengthens. When Essie pulls back, just enough to look at him, her voice is hoarse. “Danse, we should go inside.”

His eyes flutter open, caramel meeting slate. “Yes, we should.” He doesn’t make a move to get up. “But first, you should let me kiss you again.”


	3. Lachrymose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essie's having some problems in the aftermath of her first trip to the Institute. But that's what friends are for, right?

Danse is trudging back to the bed he’s claimed as his own after his shift on watch at the guard post. He can barely keep his eyes open, and can’t wait to collapse for a few hours’ sleep before he needs to get up for his run. 

These plans are delayed when the sound of exploding glass, coming from Essie’s house, catches his attention. He draws his pistol and creeps over to the closed door, pausing for a moment to assess the situation and making a mental note to shore up the defenses on this side of the settlement if scavengers or raiders are managing to sneak in.

He does not expect to hear crying on the other side of the door. Someone inside is clearly in distress, or is certainly doing a reasonable facsimile of being in distress. He knocks on the door.

“G‘way.”

It’s Essie - _Knight Devereaux_ , he corrects himself, not for the first time - and she is drunk. Very drunk. There’s barely one syllable there, let alone the three there should be. 

Sometimes, people just need a reminder of order in the chaos. He knocks more firmly. “Knight Deveraux.”

This time her words are crystal clear. “Fuck off, _Paladin_.”

He raises an eyebrow. It takes a lot to get Essie - _Knight Devereaux_ , he insists yet again, more sternly this time - to the point of saying any cuss words stronger than “damn,” and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to merit such ire. 

Besides, he can’t leave her alone in this condition.

“I’m coming in,” he calls softly, ducking his head as he turns the handle, just in case she launches something at him. An empty bottle explodes at his feet after he closes the door behind him.

“Din’ haveta miss, y’know.”

He nods. “I know.” She’s become surprisingly proficient at throwing grenades. “I appreciate you not hitting me in the face.”

She’s on the floor, slouched against the cabinet, a mangled piece of metal in her lap. Hands raised in a conciliatory manner, he slowly lowers himself to the floor next to her. “Why don’t you tell me what drove you to drink nearly a whole bottle of whiskey?”

She picks up the twisted metal, turns it over in her hands. Danse can barely make out the shape of a rocket on the end of one spoke. “Mobile. F’r Shaun,” she finally mumbles. “Nate fixed it th’ mornin’ the bombs hit. An’ now they’re gone.” She inhales shakily. “Nate. Shaun. M’life. Everythin’.” The metal clatters against the wall after she heaves it away from her.

She hadn’t talked about her trip into the Institute when she got back, not with anybody. She’d handed Sturges the network tape and proceeded to go about business as usual. He’d thought it strange at the time - she’s approached a fair bit of the Commonwealth with a sort of wide-eyed wonder that’s both endearing and ridiculous, taken quickly to looking for things from her time to show him and talk about, become far more of an explorer than he’d expected - but he hadn’t wanted to pry. 

Perhaps he should have, before it reached this point. “Do you want to talk about what happened at the Institute?” he asks. “It might help you feel better.” He takes the glass of whiskey she’s just poured out of her hand. “But this won’t. No more of that. I don’t want to have to haul your unconscious body to Knight-Captain Cade, and I’m concerned I might have to if you drink any more.”

She doesn’t even protest, slumping sideways to lean against him, and he finds himself momentarily at a loss, not least of all because less than two weeks ago she’d stood bathed in the glow of a sunset, jokingly asking if he’d let her cry on his shoulder.

And now here they are.

Worse, he _likes_ the feeling of her leaning against him, and that is simply unacceptable if they’re to maintain any level of professionalism.

“‘s not m’ son,” she mumbles. “Says he ‘s, but he’s not. Doesn’ care ‘bout th’ Commonwealth.” She scowls, makes an effort to enunciate her words. “Sixty years raised by cold-blooded scientists. My son died when Kellogg ripped him out of my life.” Hot tears roll down her cheeks and soak into Danse’s shirt, and she lapses back into her slurred mumble. “And now, th’ man who shoulda been my son doesn’ believe in helping people here, people tha’ need it most, when he has th’ means. Makin’ th’ Commonwealth better, I believe in tha’.”

Danse notices no Brotherhood rhetoric is on the list of things she believes in, but he stamps down his initial instinct to tack it on and admits to himself that he can’t find fault with what she’s saying. “Those are admirable things, soldier. You -”

“Essie.”

“What?”

“Call me _Essie_ ,” she says, vehement. “’s my name, isn’ it?”

“Yes, but protocol dictates a certain measure of formality between senior and junior personnel, and as I am here as both a higher ranking member of our organization and your sponsor, it is my duty to uphold that formality.” He does not say that calling her by her name will remove yet another brick from a rapidly crumbling wall he’s held up between them.

“Oh, for -” She blows a raspberry at him, and it’s so undignified and so unlike her that he wants to laugh. “Tha’s what I think of that. Do I gotta puke on your shoes to getcha t’ call me by m’ name?”

“Please don’t,” he says mildly. “These boots are quite comfortable.”

She lifts her head and glares at him, bleary-eyed. He resists the sudden urge to ask how many of him she sees.

Her eyes are gray like rain clouds, and they’re beautiful.

He can’t be noticing these things about her.

“Perhaps the best plan of attack is to work on creating a new life here, in 2287,” he says after some thought. “It’s not what you expected, but you’ve taken to it well, sol-”

She growls at him before she drops her head back to his shoulder.

“Essie,” he corrects himself, studiously ignoring the feel of her name in his mouth. “It won’t replace your former life, but I believe you can do a lot of good here. But you must also take the time to mourn what’s been lost, and if you need to talk to someone, I know that anyone here would be happy to listen.”

She’s leaning more heavily on him, absentmindedly running her fingertips up and down his forearm. “Thanks, Danse.”

“For?”

“Coming in. Sitting with me. Listening.”

“Happy to be … of … .” He trails off as she starts snoring softly. Her arms are wrapped around one of his, her head is lolling on his shoulder, and he’s got no way of extricating himself without waking her up. He’s slept in less comfortable conditions, he thinks as he listens to her slow, deep breathing. One night like this won’t kill him.


	4. Fraternization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The k!meme got me with “argument leads to sex,” which I just cannot resist. Nora likes Danse, but Nora is really not down with the Brotherhood being dickheads to everyone. All conversations with Danse about this have gone poorly. This one goes poorly as well … but in a slightly different direction.

"Danse, can I ask you a question?”

Nora and Danse are bivouacked in an abandoned building, up on the second floor where they have the best line of sight for any approaching threats (and god, he even has her saying ‘bivouacked,’ what the _hell_ ), and things are - for once - nice and quiet. 

He looks over from where he’s cleaning his armor. "Of course, soldier. What’s on your mind?“

He’s shrugged off the top half of his jumpsuit and tied the arms around his waist, and for a brief second she forgets what she wants to say, her resolve threatening to crumble. Damn him for being attractive.

No. It has to be said, no matter how good he looks half-dressed and dirty. She’s tried being nice about it, she’s tried being logical about it; now she’s going to be blunt about it. If he can be a stubborn ass, so can she.

"Why are you such an asshole sometimes?”

He sets down his cleaning rag, brows drawing together. "Excuse me?“

"I didn’t stutter. Why are you such an asshole sometimes? You’re rude as hell to basically everyone but me and Piper and Preston.” She pretends to think. "Oh wait, I know, it’s because you’re still up on the Brotherhood’s nuts, no matter how awful they are.“

"I am not, as you so … colorfully put it, 'up on the Brotherhood’s nuts,’” he mutters, and there’s fire in his eyes, like there always is when she backs him into a corner over Brotherhood ideology, and he can’t keep the fire out of his voice, either. "I don’t know how many times we have to go over this. The Brotherhood took me in. They trained me. They -“

"Yes, yes, what a fine and charitable, upstanding organization. Because they did that, they certainly don’t merit any kind of critical examination,” she snarks, not even attempting to hide her eyeroll.

“It’s not -”

“It _is_ ,” she snaps, crossing to him and barging right into his personal space. "That’s exactly what it is. Because they helped _you_ , you’ll go ahead and be a bigot and be rude to my friends and it really pisses me the fuck off, Danse, because you’re better than that but for some fucking reason refuse to admit it!“

"Damn it, Nora -”

She misses what he says because this is the first time he’s called her by her actual name and it’s like she’s been hit by lightning. Even her fingers are tingling. Maybe standing this close was a bad idea, because all she's seeing is that mouth and all she's thinking about is what else he could be doing with it.

“And you’re not even listening!” he finishes, well and truly angry at this point.

Good. It’s about time he got angry. "Well, maybe I’d listen if I thought you were saying something new,“ she says, snotty. "But you’re not. You’re just -”

He kisses her. He doesn’t know what the hell has possessed him beyond not wanting to hear her insult him again, but he leans forward across that negligible distance and then his mouth is on hers, her hands quick and light across his skin like she’s thought about this before.

Of course, _he’s_ thought about this before, too. He’d never have mentioned it to her - they’re separated by rank and duties and these things cannot be combined with personal affairs like this - but now that he’s gone and done this incredibly stupid thing, he’s finding it increasingly hard to stop. His hands are in her hair, briefly cradling her face, shoving her shirt up to cup her breasts, grazing callused thumbs across peaked nipples. 

He falters briefly when she gets her hands into his jumpsuit, wrapping her fingers around his cock. "God, you piss me the hell off sometimes, Danse. Just ….“ She growls against his throat before she bites the tender skin, surprisingly pleased by the resulting red mark. "Just fuck me til I’m done being pissed at you.”

He should stop this right now. 

It’s unprofessional. 

It’s going to destroy the delicate balance of their relationship. 

There are a lot of things he _should_ do, but the only thing he’s _going_ to do is fuck her against this wall and hope it doesn’t break. Her shirt’s gone, torn in half and tossed in two different directions, and he’s growing increasingly frustrated with the leather pants she’s wearing.

“Oh, for -” She makes a disgusted noise and slaps his hands away to unfasten them herself, shimmying out of them and leaving them in a dark puddle on the floor. Turning her attention to his jumpsuit, she loosens it just enough to shove it past the taut curve of his ass, right before his hands grip hers and lift her with ease. She hooks her legs around his waist, reaching between them to fit him to her as swings her around.

Three short steps and he enters her in one swift, sharp motion as her back slams into the wall, muffling her moan with a kiss rough enough for their teeth to click together, and then his hips are bucking against her, all of his anger at her and this argument and the fact that maybe deep down he knows she’s right channeled into each thrust. 

Bits of plaster rain into Nora’s chin-length, thick auburn hair as her nails rake red lines into his back and her hips jerk against his, straining to stay quiet so as not to draw attention their way. This wasn’t ever how she’s imagined this going (and she’s imagined it quite a bit, even more once she realized how absolutely upstanding and committed to rank structure he is; there’s nothing more alluring than the unattainable and forbidden), but he’s got one hand supporting her ass, the other fisted in her hair, and goddamn but angry frustrated horny Danse is mouthwateringly hot. She’s sure her toes are curling, she’s so turned on.

He’s suddenly possessed of the need to gain the upper hand, and he leans forward, brushing his lips against the curve of her ear before he captures the delicate lobe between his teeth. “Say my name, Nora,” he murmurs, breathing hard. She gives him an obstinate look, just like he knew she would. “Say my name,” he growls again, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.

“Make me, _Paladin_.”

He can’t even separate the anger and the lust anymore; he’s irrationally pissed at her insubordination but all he wants is his name in her mouth as she falls apart. He slows for just a moment, long enough to shove a hand between them; his thumb finds her clit, circling it as he resumes fucking her. 

She jumps like he electrocuted her, her teeth digging into her lower lip, and in a matter of minutes she’s overwhelmed, heedless of how her back is being slammed into the wall, whimpering half words and incoherent sounds as she grinds helplessly against his hand. Danse, damn him right to hell, has figured out just how adjust his movements to keep her teetering on the edge, and she doesn’t _want_ to beg but she’s practically cross-eyed with how badly she needs him to make her come.

He can tell she’s close, and he can’t tear his eyes away from her, captivated by how her eyelids are fluttering, how her mouth forms around staggered vowels and consonants, how she’s straining against him and all but panting. “Say it,” he says again, and this time there’s a thread of command in his voice, the final perversion of their professional relationship, but right now he doesn’t care. 

Right now he wants her to surrender.

She opens her mouth; for a split second he thinks she might hold out one more time, but then the words are spilling out of her, a half-sobbed plea. “Danse, you’re driving me mad, I can’t stand it anymore, pleasepleaseplease fuck me!” Her hands are buried in his hair, curved around his broad shoulders, cupping his face, everywhere they can reach.

He can’t even find the words to answer, only able to reply with a groan of pure, unadulterated need. He flicks his thumb across her, the muscles in his back stretching and bunching, her spiraling moans spurring him onward, their skin sweat-slick and flushed. She tenses, then arches her back, her short scream sharp in the night air as she spasms around him, and she’s still shaking when he comes, burying his shouted expletive against her neck. 

He staggers back a step, then sets her down, turning away without a word. She leans against the wall, catching her breath as she watches him, almost able to read his thought process on his face. Anger. Guilt. More anger. 

“Danse ….” Nora stops, reconsiders as she steps back into her pants. “If, ah, it’ll make you feel better, I can just call you ‘Paladin’ from now on. But you should know, I mean, if you’re worried about it, it’s not like this will make me respect you any less. If I didn’t respect you, I wouldn’t get so mad when you act like a shit.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches her silently as he puts himself to rights.

She twiddles her fingers, inexplicably nervous. “But I know you’re pretty set in your military ways, so if you’d rather not travel together anymore because we fraternized or whatever, I suppose I understand.”

“I’d be a pretty poor sponsor if I abandoned you because I fucked up, now wouldn’t I?” he says after a moment. He sighs, mostly at himself, because should be more angry at himself than he really is. He’ll just have to be extra vigilant in maintaining the proper distance between them from now on. “I’d prefer not to compound my errors this evening. But this won’t happen again. It can’t. There are standards of conduct. They are there for a reason, and those standards must be maintained.”

For once, she keeps her sarcastic rejoinder to herself. “Well … all right then. So we’re good?”

“We’re good.” For various and somewhat lax definitions of ‘good,’ he thinks to himself.

She nods briskly. “It’s my turn to make dinner, right?” She rummages around in her pack and puts on a flannel shirt she’d found in a suitcase earlier that day, silently sorting through what she wants to say and discarding all but the most blandly inoffensive. “I’m sorry I interrupted your cleaning routine. I’ll let you know when it’s time to eat.”


End file.
